


Ships in the Night

by deartangerine



Category: Firefly
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Seduction, Client!Mal, Eventual Smut, F/M, It's For a Job, Pre-Canon, Seduction, Thieving, in which mal actually drinks his respecting companions juice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deartangerine/pseuds/deartangerine
Summary: At first, it's just business. Then, it's a challenge. And then... well, then it's a complication.// Client!Mal/Inara. Set about one and a half years pre-canon.





	1. working every day to get my mind right

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, the most contrived means ever created to justify an end.
> 
> Chapter titles from the song "Honey" by Johnny Balik.

“You want me to do _what?”_

Mal stopped himself from garnishing his question with a few choice expletives. The person seated before him just so happened to be his boss.

And Mal, as she was so fond of reminding him, was her lowly assistant.

“I’m offering you a free night of bliss with one of the most exclusive Companions currently contracting on Beaumonde.” Fortune Lamber twirled her tablet stylus between her fingers, peering over her bifocals at Mal. “With the slight caveat that you must work before you play.”

She was a petite woman just shy of her seventies, with obsidian eyes set into her beige, wrinkled face. No one who’d been on the receiving end of her gaze would ever describe her as ‘frail’ or ‘kindly.’ Despite her grandmotherly aspect, she was one of the sharpest and most ruthless planet-side merchants on all the worlds spinning. She specialized in Earth-that-Was antiquities, but dipped her fingers in many pies.

She paid her assistants well, but Mal didn’t think any amount could cover what she was asking.

 _Six more months._ Mal clung to the thought. _Only six more months before you’ll have enough to buy a ship and take whatever jobs you want without heelin’ for nobody._

“Ma’am, with all due respect, there’s gotta be a simpler way to get in touch with this seller you’re after.”

“That’s precisely the issue. He’s not a seller... yet.” Lamber frowned. “And really, I’d think you’ve lived on Beaumonde long enough to know that when it comes to the tangled web of social hierarchy, nothing is simple.”

Mal gave a grudging sigh. He’d been stuck on Beaumonde the past two years, having washed up there after peace was negotiated and the Independents disbanded for good. He’d watched many of his former comrades-in-arms lose themselves in drink or drops. Just what the Alliance wanted.

The best way to say _'tsao ni ma de'_ to the Alliance, by Mal’s reckoning, was to survive.

Zoe had gone underground, with the Dust Devils. Deep, deep underground. They were continuing the fight, which earned them the designation of terrorists from the Alliance, and even some ex-Browncoats who’d been thoroughly de-clawed. Every couple months Zoe would show up on the doorstep of Mal’s crappy one-bedroom, usually injured and covered in blood, not all of it her own. She’d collapse on his couch, sleep for a week, then vanish again. Mal never asked questions.

As for himself... well, he did alright. He kept busy. Bit by bit, he'd clawed his way into the world of interplanetary business which, in many respects, could be bloodier and more brutal than war. But he had a goal. He wanted his own ship, and he was willing to dirty himself any way necessary, in order to get it.

This particular task gave him pause, however.

“Raphe Harshek is the most elusive source I’ve ever courted,” Lamber went on, as she lit an herbal in her antique-style cigarette holder. “And I do mean courted. I’ve tried to woo him every way I know. But I haven’t gotten anywhere close to the bastard. Now, at long last, I’ve been thrown a crumb.”

She tapped her tablet, pulling on the elegant black stick between her fingers. Smoke poured from her mouth.

“Harshek is the epitome of antisocial. He can afford to be. But he makes an exception for one particular Companion.” She pursed her lips. “And I happen to know she is currently on Beaumonde, making her rounds among the local gentry.”

Lamber pushed the tablet toward him. It was open to an official Companion profile, or so Mal assumed, having never seen one before. The woman in the photographs looked... unreal. Too perfect, too gold-dusted, dark hair trussed up with jeweled pins, lips a deep wine red. A subtle challenge flickered in her eyes, directed at the viewer. Beside her picture was her name, _Inara Serra,_ age 28, just a year older than Mal. There was a list of services provided, along with her ‘specialties.’

 _‘Foot-washing?’_ Mal wrinkled his nose. _The hell..._

“What am I s’posed to get from her?” he asked.

“A ring.” Lamber exhaled another mouthful of smoke. “Harshek’s calling ring. Word is it’s made of Earth-that-was ivory. The ring alone is worth more than everything I currently have in stock.”

Mal quirked the corner of his mouth. “I’m guessin’ you don’t mean to sell it.”

“Oh, no. With that ring, I can get all the way to his personal assistant. My boundless charm will make up for the rest.”

“What if I can’t find it?”

Lamber’s laugh trilled like bells. “Aren’t you cute. Sometimes I forget how much of a bumpkin you really are.” She smirked. “That ring is the Beaumonde upper-class equivalent of a giant neon sign flashing: ‘I’m hot shit and important people like me.’ She’ll keep it visible. She might even be wearing it.”

“What, you want me to steal it off her finger?” 

Lamber took another drag of her cigarette. “If you have to.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It would be awfully showy of her, if she did have it on her hand. Most likely, it’ll be displayed somewhere in her quarters.”

“And how in hell will you get me a session? I ain’t exactly...” He glanced at her picture again. “Yeah. Her type.”

Lamber pulled her tablet back. “If you mean your lack of social credentials, it’ll be taken care of. A well-connected local owes me a favor or two.” She smiled.

People were always owing her favors. Often, Mal was the one to drop by and remind them of it. Politely.

Posing as a client in order to infiltrate a Companion's shuttle, and steal an object of immense social and historical value, went a step beyond his job description, in Mal's opinion. The level of deceit required didn’t sit well in his gut. Not to mention he hadn't the slightest notion of what a session with a Companion even entailed. Besides the obvious, of course. He'd only seen them from afar, heard them spoken of in passing. Core-born, every last one of them, bred and fed by the hand of the Alliance. 

No. None of this sat right with him.

His face must have shown it, because Lamber clicked her tongue.

“If you don’t feel up to the task... it wouldn’t give me any grief to dismiss you, and find another assistant.” She frowned. “Well, maybe I'd shed a single tear. You’ve been with me almost a year, now, haven’t you. That’s the longest I’ve ever kept one.”

She lifted her tidy silver brows. “Oh, I forgot to mention. When you bring me the ring, there’ll be a substantial bonus for you, alongside your usual pay.”

Mal clenched his jaw. A bonus would get him closer to his ship. _To freedom._

“Right.” He let out his breath. “Tell me what I gotta do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _tsao ni ma de_ \- fuck you [strong]
> 
> A note on the Mandarin - in this fic I've chosen to use phonetic spelling, instead of pinyin, for ease of reading and to preserve the intended sound.


	2. where were you when i was lost

Mal grimaced, tugging at the upright collar around his neck. The muted dark-green suit Lamber had loaned him wasn't bad, but he still objected to it. On principle, if nothing else. 

Beaumonde, for the most part an industrial planet, boasted an upper-class culture of art and antiquity collectors, concentrated in the capital city of New Dunsmuir. They didn't have the nobility and titles that Persephone did, but Mal almost would have preferred it. At least rich folk from Persephone weren't shy about their wealth. On Beaumonde, everything was wrapped in a thin veneer of false humility and 'intellectual appreciation.' Even their fashion was ascetic. It still spoke wealth, just at a softer volume: plain cuts of the finest cloth.

Lamber sat beside him in the back of the slick rental speeder, on the way to the event, some exhibition premiere. She wasn't coming with him, of course. She rarely dirtied her own hands.

“This is first contact. It's how they do things here. My friend Oleander, the one who owes me a favor, he'll make your proper introduction to the Companion. All you have to do is smile, kiss her hand, and leave her wanting more.” She considered Mal a moment. “Speak as little as possible,” she added.

“Hey, my mouth ain’t ever cost you a deal before, has it?”

Lamber fixed him with a look. “What did I say about the ‘ain’ts’?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mal rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk like a real well-bred _chwun li._ I promise.”

“My sources tell me Miss Serra will be alone. To see and be seen. I highly doubt she’s come for the art.”

Mal shifted in his seat, jaw set hard. He didn’t like to think of these ‘sources,’ whoever they were, monitoring the comings and goings of an oblivious woman. Alliance Companion or no.

But Fortune Lamber was like a dog with a bone. Once she’d sunk her teeth in, she wouldn't let go until she won, or broke something.

In this case, that something would be Mal.

“Your purpose tonight is simply to give yourself credibility and familiarity,” she went on. “So when Serra receives your invitation, she’ll be more likely to accept it."

Mal knit his brow. “And about what percentage of prospective clients does she accept?”

“Some have been trying to book a session with her for years.”

“Oh, good. This’ll be easy, then.”

“You’re not entirely devoid of charm, Reynolds. I’ve seen you put it to work on my buyers. But you’d do best to shed your, how to put it... antiestablishment flavor?” She smoothed a wrinkle in her elbow-length gloves. “I find it refreshing. Safe to say no one here will feel the same.”

“I’ll do my best,” he mumbled.

The speeder stopped in front of the venue, an enormous museum with columns out front. Security guards peppered the entrance. A long white carpet stretched down the stairs leading into the building.

The driver got out, and tried to help Mal down. He shook the man away. From inside the cab, Lamber cleared her throat meaningfully. Mal grit his teeth, and tipped the driver. He gave his boss an ironic salute, before turning to face the music.

He tried to get in a rich-bastard frame of mind, as he climbed the stairs. Lamber had prepped him on a veritable encyclopedia of social niceties. It all seemed to evaporate with every step he took, further into the belly of the beast.

 _Remember why you’re doing this,_ he told himself, as the usher examined his invitation, and let Mal inside. 

*

Inara Serra swirled her drink, contemplating the multi-media swirl of textures and images before her. Photographs and video clips of death and destruction, overlaid with brightly-colored filters and flickering lights. The spectacle it produced turned her stomach. But art was intended to discomfit the viewer, wasn’t it? 

She sighed, and took another sip of shimmer wine. 

What she would give to be back in her shuttle, aboard the Fēng Mì. She'd been invited to this event by a few friends, perhaps better described as 'we-know-the-same-people' acquaintances, accumulated from several years of contracting regularly on Beaumonde. Inara couldn't complain too much. She did like working there. Far enough from the Core to benefit from a more relaxed atmosphere, yet affluent enough to offer her a decent pool of clients. 

Over the course of the evening, she had been approached by no fewer than a dozen such hopefuls. Most of them she dismissed within the first few minutes. Now that she had built a name for herself, she could afford to be picky, and she relished in it. 

A person's energy, far above appearance, was the most important indicator. She sought out even-keel types, quiet and reserved, those who were anchored by a deep inner calm, and governed by a sense of propriety. They were less likely to give her any difficulty during a session.

“Miss Serra?” 

A slender balding gentleman materialized at her side, startling her. She recovered, and summoned a smile. Oleander Zhao, a New Dunsmuir University professor who had sent her several invitations, all of which she’d declined. There was a subtle line between even-keel and mind-numbing. 

“What a lovely surprise, to find you here,” he said, with affected casualness. "Are you enjoying the exhibition?"

Her smile pinched. "Perhaps 'enjoyment' isn't quite the artist's intent. It is certainly... provoking."

"Provoking, yes, indeed. It reminds me of the work of Arke Peralti, have you encountered him in your travels?" He didn't wait for a response. "Peralti stages interactive performance pieces, highly emotive, bordering on combative. I attended one on Persephone last month, and I was struck by his interrogation into the implications of engagement in..."

Inara carefully painted interest onto her face, resigned to a lecture.

But he stopped himself, and shook his head. "Ah- I digress." He looked pensive, unsure. More so than usual. "There's someone I would introduce to you, if I might be so forward."

"Certainly, Dr. Zhao. A colleague of yours?"

"Eh... after a fashion." He hesitated. "His name is Malcolm Reynolds. He- he works in the art industry. He specializes in appraisal and trading of Earth-that-Was antiquities."

Inara nodded, smiling. She could see the man already. At least as old as Dr. Zhao, with hunched shoulders, and a permanently furrowed brow, from decades of straining over minuscule details.

"He's here tonight, in fact." Zhao turned his head, in order to indicate, as any hand gestures were considered rude. "In the myrtle green suit."

There was only one man, as far as she could see, dressed in dark blue-green. He stood in front of another art piece on the far wall. Inara blinked, her mouth dropping open. _Well._

She'd been quick to judge, it seemed. He was young, and he cut a fine, solid figure in the minimal style currently favored. He turned his head, showing the angles of his profile, the sharp edge of his jaw. Inara lost her breath. 

He was beautiful.

A man approached Mr. Reynolds, and asked him a question. He bristled, and shot off a response, with a wave of his hand. The man scowled. Then he tossed the contents of his drink into Mr. Reynolds' face.

"Oh, dear," said Dr. Zhao softly. "Ah. Perhaps this isn't the ideal moment-"

"No," Inara burst. She had to swallow a laugh, watching the man in green. He stood still, utterly blase, alcohol dripping from his hair, as the other man stormed off. "Please, do introduce me to him." 

Dr. Zhao had no choice. He blanched, no doubt mourning the damage that would be wrought on his reputation, associating himself with such a _wenshen._ Inara had to pity the professor. If only a little.

"Mr. Reynolds," he said feebly, once they reached him. "Allow me to make introductions."

The man turned, and his eyes met Inara's. They were hard and sharp, a blue like she'd never seen. "Hi." He gestured to his face. "Forgive- uh, this. 'Fraid I didn't prepare for the weather."

Inara had to pull her lips into her mouth, to keep from laughing aloud. Dr. Zhao looked increasingly pained. 

"Inara Serra, may I present Malcolm Reynolds." At this cue, Inara offered her hand, knuckles lifted. Dr. Zhao finished, in a sigh, "Mr. Reynolds, I present you to Miss Serra."

He took her fingers in his, and air-kissed them, careful not to drip onto her hand. He didn't break eye contact.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reynolds."

He released her hand, lifting one corner of his mouth. "Pleasure is mine."

She reached into the long sleeve of her dress, and pulled out a silk handkerchief, offering it to him.

"Thank you kindly." Their fingers brushed, as he took it. He wiped the wine from his face, and dabbed at his collar. He gave her a somewhat sheepish grin. _Sweet Buddha,_ but that grin did things to Inara's stomach she hadn't felt in a long time.

"Ah, if you'll forgive me, I must- I must go... elsewhere," Dr. Zhao managed, quavering. He dashed away, toward the bar.

"Huh. Seems I have a particular effect on people here." Mr. Reynolds cocked an eyebrow at Inara. "Hope you're not feeling the urge to empty your glass onto me."

She gave a small smile. "Not yet."

Up close, she could appreciate the details of him. His hands bore marks of hard labor, but not recently; the calluses had softened to faint scars. He wouldn't look at her straight-on, only in brief, flashing glances that sent sparks across her skin. He kept his peripheral vision keen, as if scanning for potential dangers. Inara was reminded of ex-soldiers and security personnel she had contracted with before.

"What did you say to him?" Inara blurted, before she could think better of it.

"Come again?"

"Pardon my curiosity." She bit her lip. "But I was wondering what you said, to make that man throw his drink at you."

"Oh. Well." Mr. Reynolds gestured to the piece of art on the wall beside them. It was a black-and-white photograph depicting the ruins of a small town, razed to the ground, with the unmistakable imprints of Alliance biological weaponry. The artist had hand-colored parts of the photograph, in pastel colors. "He asked for my opinion on the piece. So I told him. Mayhaps I should've been less honest."

Inara wondered where he was from. Certainly not Beaumonde, with how easily his hands moved. She tilted her head. "What is your opinion, Mr. Reynolds?"

"Honest or polite version?"

"Honest." Her eyes were caught in his. 

"And you promise in advance not to throw your drink at me."

She fought a smile. "I reserve the right to throw my drink, but only if you deserve it."

He considered. "Fair enough." He turned to the artwork, and let out a breath. "It's tragedy porn."

She blinked, but said nothing. He went on, "I mean, look at it." He swung out an arm, to take in the entire hall. "All of it. The artist is from a Core planet, I imagine."

"He is.” Inara had read the biographical note in the exhibition guide. 

"Yeah." Mr. Reynolds nodded, his mouth making a hard line. "And all these photographs were taken on the Border. During and after the war."

"How can you tell?"

"Because I-" He broke off, and gave a shake of his head. "Because Border planets were the only ones that got hit like this."

"What I meant was, how do you know the photographs are real?" Inara noted the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes burned into the artwork, and wouldn't meet her gaze. "They could have been digitally manipulated," she pointed out.

"They could have been. But they weren't. The colors and all the _pi hua,_ that's fake. But the destruction underneath. That's real."

Inara thought a moment. "In that case, isn't it a valid and even commendable artistic imperative, to shed light on the reality of postwar life on the Border?"

He scowled. "Except that ai- that's not what this is. This is the artist exploiting a reality he has no personal connection with, just for the shock value. For the sympathy points. So all the rich and art-inclined can clutch their pearls and coo about how tragic it is, when they were happy to sit back and watch the Alliance cause the destruction in the first place." 

His voice rose as he spoke, drawing several glares from those nearby. At once, he seemed to come back to himself. He clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenched. His fair cheeks were flushed, eyes bright.

Inara realized her mouth had fallen open. She closed it. Wordlessly, she handed him her glass of shimmer wine. He drank it in one swallow, and handed it back to her, empty.

"You're right," she said at last, quiet. "And I think you're very brave for saying it."

His eyes flashed to hers, in surprise. She went on, "I knew there was something that bothered me, about the exhibition. But I couldn't articulate it."

He considered her for a moment, then looked away, with a shrug. "Anyway. That's more or less what I said. And the fellow didn't appreciate my candor."

"I think it may have been more than that," said Inara lightly. "He was the artist."

Mr. Reynolds lifted his eyebrows. "Oh." He pursed his mouth, with a nod. "Guess I won't be getting an autograph, then."

Inara didn't know whether to be amused or horrified by his lack of concern. Someone in his occupation, with his attitude, would likely starve. 

"May I give you a piece of advice?" 

"Depends." He smirked. "Will you charge me for it?"

She shot him a withering look. "If you want to be successful in this industry, I suggest you refrain from forming personal opinions about the art," she said archly. "Leave that to your collectors."

"A fine piece of advice." He was looking at her straight-on, now. A glint lit his eyes. "Now I feel like I owe you something."

"You owe me nothing, Mr. Reynolds." She tried to recover her detachment, gathering shards of it from the floor. The man was everything she wasn't looking for in a client. She wouldn't waste another moment of her time. 

"If you'll excuse me," she said with a smile, pleasant as ever, before she turned, and walked away. His gaze burned at her back. 

It wasn't until hours later, back in her shuttle and preparing for bed, that it came to her, in a flash of irritation.

He still had her handkerchief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _chwun li_ \- ass, jackass  
>  _wenshen_ \- troublemaker [lit. 'plague god']  
>  _pi hua_ \- bullshit, nonsense
> 
> If you’ve read and enjoyed this far, please let me know by dropping a kudos! Btw, the next chapter gets into their session, promise.


	3. all the little things, which we rely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone was concerned and/or wondering: Mal does not call Inara a wh*re in this fic. In fact, the word doesn't appear at all. Why? Because I don't like it, and I'm god of this here AU. So there.

After recording his _mei pi yong_ invitation, which took five tries before his boss was satisfied, Mal thought he'd have at least one day free from thinking about the Companion.

How wrong he was.

He went about his work, arranging meetings, placating nervous buyers, supervising the inventory taggers to make sure their fingers weren't getting sticky with the stock. But all the while, Inara Serra's satin voice hummed in the back of his mind. He blinked and saw her black-coffee eyes, lit from within by a keen curiosity. A knowing.

That was what most unsettled him, Mal reckoned. When she'd looked at him, he'd felt known. And he didn't much care for it.

In a lot of ways, Miss Serra had conformed exactly to his expectations. A polished sheen lacquered her every smile and word. But underneath, he'd caught hints of her truer self, threatening to break through. In the twitch of her lips, as if barely holding back a laugh. The baffled sort of wonder in her eyes, after his impromptu broadside against the art. 

If he hadn't managed to charm her, he certainly had confused her. Best he could hope for, Mal expected.

 _No._ The best he could hope for was that she would reject his invitation. Then he could forget the whole ridiculous scheme, and her.

Especially her.

The following morning, he was awoken by a message from Fortune. He shot upright, and swore.

Inara Serra had accepted. 

*

Inara went through four outfit changes, and three different hairstyles, before she had to look herself in the mirror and face the truth.

 _Wo de ma._ She was nervous. 

She didn't get nervous, not anymore. Not for years. But there the nervousness was, buffeting her like a strong wind through leaves. And even still, she couldn't explain to herself why she had accepted Malcolm Reynolds' invitation. 

Honesty was a rare commodity among the circles she moved in. It was trained out of people like her from a young age. Honesty was unseemly. It made others uncomfortable. 

And here was this man whose honesty spilled over the edges of him, in the very way he moved. 

Inara had been wrong, when she first saw him, from across the museum gallery. He was too hard, too bright, to be called beautiful. Beauty was easy to look at. 

Nothing about him was easy.

His image seemed to be stuck on the underside of her eyelids, because looking at him was like staring into the sun. She had been dazzled, temporarily. But she wouldn't let it happen the second time.

That was why she had accepted, perhaps. To reassure herself that she could maintain distance, and above all, control. 

With that in mind, she decided on a dress. 

* 

"Locate the ring, first, and formulate a plan for getting ahold of it. Use whatever means of distraction may be at your disposal." Lamber smiled, wolf-like. "Then, and only then, you may enjoy yourself. Think you can handle that?"

Mal frowned. "I'll handle it." 

He'd do what he had to. But he certainly wouldn’t enjoy it. Any of it.

He wasn't sure how far he'd be willing to go, in an encounter that was twice a lie. He tried not to think on it too much. He intended to focus on the task before him. Do the job, and the rest would take care of itself. That was how it usually went, in his experience.

The Companion's shuttle docked on the station where Lamber's offices were located, so it didn't take long for Mal to get there. But by the time he did, his nerves had mounted to a crescendo. 

He stopped on the deck outside Miss Serra's docking port, and caught his reflection in the glass covering a station map on the wall. He hardly recognized himself. So starched and respectable, in a pressed white shirt and black suit, of the ancient 'golden age' style that Lamber favored. Mal ran a hand back through his hair, mussing it irreversibly.

All this would take was a bit of blind confidence, and strength of will. Neither of which he was lacking in. Get the ring, and get out, as quick and graceful as possible. Hardly nothing to it.

"Mr. Reynolds?"

He started, turning to find the Companion looking up at him. Her shimmery peach gown contrasted against her tawny skin, all of her glowing, fresh as a sunrise. Her hair was up, like it had been in her picture, and a gem-studded comb crested her curls. 

"Yes, uh, hi," he stammered. _Off to a great start,_ he chided himself.

"I'm glad that you found my shuttle alright. I'm prepared to receive you, and eager to begin our time together." She spoke so earnestly, Mal had to remind himself the words were no doubt rote for her, delivered a thousand times before. "Are you ready, or do you need a moment?"

"No." He swallowed. "That is- I'm ready."

She took his hand, and a jolt shot through him. De-centered his whole being, like a tectonic shift. Her hand was soft and slightly cool, her grip sure.

With a small, closed-mouth smile, she led him by the hand into her shuttle. The door slid closed behind them. An automatic lock mechanism echoed through the metal. 

Mal was suddenly confronted by her proximity, as she stopped in the small entryway, and turned to him. She smelled like cinnamon, with something sweet and unnameable underneath. 

"Before we begin, I invite you to address me by my first name. Inara. May I do the same for you?"

He considered. As of late, most folk he came into contact with called him 'Reynolds,' or nothing at all. No one had called him 'Malcolm' since he'd left home.

"Mal will do," he said, hesitant. It was a name for people he knew, and trusted. Yet he handed it over to her all the same. 

She smiled, and stepped back, by way of invitation. "Welcome, Mal."

The shuttle was more spacious than he had expected. But it had a closeness, a lack of defined edges, which seemed to cradle them inside a dimly-lit cocoon of lush fabrics, every spare surface dressed in cardial crimson and maroon. A few floating shelves, and a small armoire, displayed a collection of various pretties.

Mal wandered over, affecting a casual interest in the jewelry. "Nice place. Is it charmed?" He shot a smirk over his shoulder. "It looks bigger on the inside."

"Simply the magic of interior design." She gestured to a lounge seat, built for two to sit comfortably. A low table, spread with a fine tea set, lay before it. "Would you care to sit? "

Mal waved a hand. No sign of the ring, so he moved on. "What range do you have?"

Her brow dipped, in a flicker of irritation, smoothed over as soon as it appeared. "Forgive me, I don't understand-"

"Your shuttle. What's its range?" Feigning interest in her accommodations was the only excuse he think of, to cover his sniffing around.

"Oh, ah- limited short," she said, relaxing as she recovered the footing of the conversation. "Suited for in-atmosphere travel."

"That is limited." Mal approached a smaller shelf draped in a curtain, and thought about pulling the fabric back. He stopped himself. "When the ship is orbiting off-planet, you're stuck there with them."

He turned back to the Companion, only to find she was standing right behind him. He jumped slightly, but didn't move away. She laid a protective hand on the shelf, and smiled, as if to say, _Not for you._

"It satisfies my current needs," she said evenly. "I've lived in every type of shuttle there is. This is not the worst, I assure you."

Mal raised his eyebrows. "You've lived in a perry, then?" 

Perimeter-restricted, or PE-RE shuttles were somewhat infamous, due to their 'electric fence' model. If it flew too far from its proprietary ship, the shuttle and its pilot received a 'benign' shock, before override controls forced a landing. Perries were impractical, unethical, and dangerous. None of that stopped folk from using them, of course. Namely transport ship captains who didn't trust their tenants. 

"Once. Back when I first started contracting off-world, and didn't know any better." She gave a wry smile. "I learned a lot, that first year."

Mal blinked. He'd figured Companions lived like all those blessed by the Alliance, in perfect comfort and ease, moving unhindered wherever they went. They were known for it, in fact. 

Her voice pulled him back. "Are you interested in shuttles?" she asked, all innocence. The barest implication hid beneath her words.

Mal couldn't help but laugh. "What, do they give me flush?" He shook his head. "Uh, no."

"It wouldn't be the strangest pleasure point I've encountered."

The attention her mouth gave to the word 'pleasure' tugged at someplace low in Mal's stomach. As if the word itself was parting, inviting, wrapping around him. A sudden heat flooded the back of his neck.

He knew what she was doing. Pitching her voice to elicit a specific response. He _knew_ that, which gave him the power to ignore it.

An idea dawned.

"No, it's not shuttles I'm interested in." He slid a bit of ooze into his voice, much to his own disgust. He shifted past her, back toward her displays of precious objects. "As you know, I specialize in antiquities. You've got some very fine pieces here." 

Mal hoped he could pull it off. He'd picked up some of the jargon, by proximity, but he knew _pi shi_ about appraisal. He left that to Lamber and her cadre of professionals. He also didn't give a gorram about antiquities, in general. They were old. Big deal. But he'd sure met plenty of people who seemed to get off on them. It was a plausible fetish, at least. 

She responded in kind, her smile growing. "I do. Most of them were gifts, I know very little about their true value. Perhaps you could... tell me about them."

Mal nearly gagged. He managed to keep a straight face. "There is one treasure in particular I was hoping to ask you about. See, I heard a rumor that you know Raphe Harshek. The famous collector."

She went quiet a moment, eyeing him. Her face was neutral. "And what if I do?"

"The calling rings he gives to those he trusts... is it true they're made of natural silver, from Earth-that-Was?"

If Mal knew one thing about rich folk, it was that they couldn't stop themselves from correcting people, especially when it came to stuff they owned.

"No, actually, they're made of-" Inara stopped, and bit her lip, realizing she had given herself away. Her cheeks flushed prettily.

Mal grinned. "You've seen one, then?"

The look she gave him penetrated to his core. She seemed to make a calculation, then said, "He gave me one, in fact. It's made of pure ivory. Hand-carved, too."

He exhaled with a low hum, hoping he sounded sufficiently turned-on. "Must be something to behold."

"I will consider showing it to you, over tea. Please, sit." 

"If you insist," said Mal, half-teasing. There it was again, that tug low in his gut. 

The woman was forceful in a quiet way. As if she simply knew how it should be, and expected everyone to follow her example. She held that sureness in her voice, in her body, a power radiating outward, mucking up Mal's own internal navigation more than he cared to admit. 

He left plenty of distance between them, as he sat down on the lounge. Silence reigned while she prepared and poured the tea, in a series of convoluted motions. She lifted the pot high, to let the water cascade into each cup. It was showy and pointless, but mesmerizing, Mal had to admit. 

At last, she handed him his cup, and broke the silence. "This is your first time contracting with a Companion." It wasn't a question, but not quite a judgement, either. 

He took a sip, and suppressed a shudder at the bitter, green taste. "Am I that obvious?"

She smiled, and sipped from her own cup. "The tea ceremony is a sacred part of every session," she explained. "It establishes the bond between-"

"'Bond,' huh?" Mal set his cup down on the table. "Sounds serious."

Her face didn't flicker. She went on as if he hadn't spoken, "It's generally expected that the client accept the Companion's invitation to sit and take tea, at the beginning. For your future reference."

"Oh." Mal smirked. "So that's what made you mad."

"I wasn't-" She caught herself, and let out a breath. She lapsed into silence, pulling her lips into her mouth. Clearly, she was flustered. 

_He_ had flustered _her._ A Companion. Pride flushed up his chest. 

Mal undid the button of his suit jacket, and sprawled, spreading out his arms over the back of the lounge. He smiled.

This would be even easier than he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _mei pi yong_ \- no damn use  
>  _Wo de ma_ \- equiv. of 'Oh my god' [lit. 'my mother,' no religious reference]  
>  _pi shi_ \- fuck-all, nothing [as in, 'to know fuck-all about ______']


	4. wasting borrowed time

Inara sat still, hand tightening around her teacup, and wondered why humanity hadn't yet invented a time machine.

Even if she had only one chance, she would use it to travel back exactly two days, and smack her past self in the face. Whatever had possessed her to accept Malcolm Reynolds' invitation, a brisk slap surely would have cured her of it.

"So, you going to show me Harshek's ring? Or do I have to beg?" He smiled at her, just as cocksure as could be.

Oh, he was infuriating. 

Inara took a slow, even breath, and returned his smile. She set aside her teacup. "I suppose there's no reason to keep you in suspense."

She picked up a plain wooden box from the tea table, and opened it, to reveal the ring. It looked like a trickle of cream from a pitcher had been made solid. A carved serpent coiled along the thickest part of its edge. 

Inara picked it up, setting the box aside, but didn't make any move to bring it closer to Mal. She looked at him, beckoning. After a moment's hesitation, he inched toward her, until their shoulders brushed, knees kissing. 

She watched him, and discovered the strangest thing. 

He didn't seem to be half as interested in the ring, as he was in her. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed, such a pretty, showy swallow, and she noted where his eyes were very pointedly _not_ going. It was obvious he'd been raised not to stare. But he wanted to. 

Light contact to start, Inara reminded herself. 

Her hand went to the inside of Mal's right forearm, tracing up the tender skin, the slender bones, to his wrist. She coaxed his hand into a cup. 

A shaky breath shuddered from his mouth. Inara fought a smile. Her eyes caught his, as she dropped the ring into his palm.

"Well." His eyes flickered down to the ring, then back up to hers just as quickly. His tongue grazed his lower lip. "Isn't that somethin'."

*

Mal didn't know what was happening to him.

He'd been fine, in complete control, right up until she started touching him. That was where it'd all gone wobbly. She was so close. Her sweet, spiced scent infused his every inhale, made it hard for him to get enough air.

"You have beautiful hands."

Mal choked on a laugh. "Sorry, what?" he coughed.

Her eyes were a deep brown, dark like soil rich for planting. "Has no one ever complimented you on them before?" she asked, gentle.

"Uh, no. Not- that I can recall." He swallowed. "I mean, they ain't exactly-" _Zao gao._ His accent. Well, there was no help for it, now. "I treat 'em kinda rough, I guess."

"They tell a story. I like that." She reached down, and picked up his left hand, the one that wasn't holding the ring. "May I?" 

Mal barely managed a nod. He had never felt so strange, all loose and limp. He reckoned she could do just about anything, and he wouldn't put up much of a fight. 

But somewhere in the back of his mind, in the last reserves of logic, he hadn't forgotten his job. He lowered the hand that held the ring down to the upholstery next to him. He curled his fingers loosely around the treasure, to make it appear like he wasn't holding anything. 

Inara seemed not to notice. She was occupied with his other hand, holding it in both of hers. Her eyes flickered to his, and her mouth curled.

She began to massage his hand. 

Or at least, 'massage' was the only word Mal had for it. It didn't hardly do justice. She started at his wrist, at the place where his pulse pressed close to the skin, and worked her way outwards, to his fingers. But slow, so very slow, and with such intent.

It was magic. There could be no earthly explanation for the way her fingers pressed into his palm, and Mal felt it through his whole body, flashing hot and cold, sending sparks up his spine. He felt high. He was aware of every molecule in his being. 

"Is this alright?" she asked, soft as smoke.

She rubbed his fingers, one by one, and he melted down to liquid form.

"Mal?" 

He realized his eyes had closed, and he opened them. Why was she saying his name like that? Did she expect him to form some response? With words?

"It's- mm." His mouth had gone dry. "Good."

Her smile lit up, setting her whole face aglow. Mal’s stomach kind of lurched sideways. And that was when he started to grasp the truth of it. 

_Oh._ He was in trouble.

*

Inara was in trouble.

Her center _burned,_ merely from massaging this man's hand, and watching his bright hard shell dissolve. He was docile as a sunbeam, and Inara basked in his warmth. In the small, mindless movements his mouth made, _oh,_ that mouth, the way his head tilted back slightly, eyes closed in bliss. She wanted to make him do that again, but under different circumstances. With fewer clothes.

Inara shook herself. She had to get a grip. 

It wasn't that she couldn't take any pleasure in her job. But it had to be secondary, always secondary, to the pleasure of her client. Inara took her job very seriously. She never, ever let herself get distracted.

The thrill racing through her, pouring fire through her veins, surely that was nothing more than the satisfaction of doing her job well. She was, wasn't she? 

When those blue eyes met hers, pupils blown wide, Inara couldn't help but smile. She released his hand, and moved according to her instinct. It was close to her desire, but not quite the same.

She tilted her face up to his, and slid a hand along his thigh. Blood rushed in her ears.

She kissed him.

He stiffened, then relaxed. His mouth opened for hers, with a sigh. A letting go. 

And Inara simply did her job.

*

The Companion was kissing him. But, even more worrisome, Mal was kissing her.

He was shot through with guilt and want. Guilty for wanting, and wanting to feel guilty, just a little. A potent combination that rocketed him back in time, to adolescent trysts in haylofts and meadows, every bit as itchy as they sound, in a town that preached abstinence 'til marriage. 

But this... this was so much worse. Plunging his tongue into the mouth of an Alliance Companion, drowning in her hot breath, when he detested everything she stood for. Lies, wealth, power. His heartbeat filled his throat, swift and pounding, and Mal wondered if he might die right there. He wondered whether it might be a relief. 

Somehow, in spite of all that, he managed to lift his hand from the cushion, and slip it into his jacket. He stowed Harshek's ring inside a hidden pocket. 

That was his cue, to pull away, and recover his wits.

But he didn't, because just then Inara slid her hands up to squeeze his shoulders, before resting one hand on the back of his neck, and _sweet mercy,_ but she had to stop touching him like that, or he might forget his own name.

He was well on his way there when she broke their mouths apart, just enough to murmur in his ear. 

"You're allowed to touch me, you know." Then, in a sigh that shot straight to Mal's groin, "Please."

 _Wo tsao,_ she was good. So good Mal could have sworn she was asking for real, for herself. But of course she wasn't. And that was what plummeted him back down to ground-level, at last.

He jerked away from her, spitting curses, as he staggered to his feet.

*

If Inara didn't know better, she might have worried she'd done something to hurt him.

Mal scrambled off the lounge, letting out an intelligible torrent of English and Mandarin, and stumbled to a halt in the middle of her shuttle. His face was flushed to the tips of his ears. He heaved ragged, gasping breaths, and raked a hand through his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"It's alright." Inara swallowed a sigh. _Tian a,_ she felt tense just looking at him. She let him have his space, and stayed where she was. 

He opened his eyes, and stared at the wall, as if to drill a hole in it.

It wasn't the first time Inara had dealt with this kind of reaction, although never quite so extreme. Clients who had gone long enough without any sort of touch from another human being often found themselves overwhelmed by so much, all at once. Really, it was Inara's fault, for moving too quickly. 

She put her voice to use, from seductive to soothing like flipping a switch. 

"We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. You may be surprised to hear how many of my sessions don't involve sex, or any intimate acts, whatsoever. It's a very small part of what I do, in fact."

As she spoke, his breathing slowed. His shoulders loosened, ever so slightly. "What d'you do, then?" he asked, brow furrowed. 

"I talk. More often, I listen. I provide what my title implies: companionship." She smiled. "That may take many forms."

He clenched and unclenched his fists, pacing back and forth in a short line.

Inara went on, voice smooth and unlined. "Perhaps you came to this with expectations. Certain expectations for yourself. I find it's much easier once we let go of such things." She shifted, deciding to try a new tack. "You haven't always worked in art and antiquities."

"Good guess," he said shortly. 

"It wasn't a guess. You can tell a lot about a person, by looking closely."

Mal stopped pacing. He looked over, into her eyes. "Go on, then."

"You're from the Border. You fought in the war." _Not for the Alliance_ , the implication hung in the air, unspoken. "You live alone. You're a workaholic, but you don't see it as a negative trait. In fact, you place quite a lot of your self-worth in it." Inara looked down at her hands, and added without meaning to, "I'm the same way."

He scoffed, half-turned away. "Yeah, I'm sure we have so much in common." He shot her a glance, and shook his head. "You think you can look at me, and see my life. You don't know anythin' 'bout what I've lived."

"Then tell me," she said, earnest. "I'd like to know." _To better understand you._

"No." He had closed up again. All the ground Inara had gained, lost in an instant, in the hardness of his face. "I ain't gonna sit here and share my life story."

Inara shut her eyes briefly. _"Wo meiyoo nai shin,"_ the words ground out between her teeth, before she could stop them. Her face flushed hot. "I give up," she snapped.

He blinked, and jerked his head toward her.

"What could you possibly want, that I haven't offered?" She stood up, crossing the room as she spoke, to face him head-on. "You don't want sex. You don't want comfort. You don't want to talk." 

_Aiya._ What a rush it was to speak without calculating every word, to a client. Intoxicating, and just a bit terrifying. 

She stopped inches from him, breathing hard through her nose. "I regret to inform you that my capabilities end there, so perhaps you should stop wasting both our time, and leave."

He stared down at her, stunned. After a moment, his mouth made a straight line, eyes hardening. 

"Hell with this," he muttered. 

He reached inside his suit jacket. His movements were jerky, almost angry, as he pulled out something small, and grabbed Inara's wrist, to drop it into her hand. 

It was Harshek's calling ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _Wo tsao_ \- Holy fuck, holy shit  
>  _Zao gao_ \- Dammit  
>  _Tian a_ \- Heavens  
>  _Wo meiyoo nai shin_ \- I don’t have the patience for this  
>  _Aiya_ \- Damn (mild exclamation)


	5. tell me everything and hold no lies

The ivory ring, so slight and pale for such a powerful object, weighed heavy in Inara's palm. Her client was breathing heavily through his nose, jaw set hard. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Inara shook her head. "I... I don't understand. What..."

Mal jabbed a finger at the ring. "That's the reason I came here. That was my assignment."

She stared at him, still uncomprehending.

He threw out his arms. "To steal it," he burst.

Inara's mouth dropped open. She blinked. She looked at the ring, then back up at her client- the thief.

He held himself differently, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He rubbed his brow, and shook his head to himself. _"Nandao wo fung luh ma?"_ he murmured.

Inara was still processing. "How did you even-"

"When we were kissin'. Weren't hard." He met her eyes, and his mouth curled at one corner.

Inara gaped at him. The last shreds of her pride disintegrated, fluttering like ash to the floor. Who was this man, and who had given him the power to lay waste to all her defenses? How had she let herself get so distracted?

"Well." Inara kept her internal crisis from showing on her face, just barely. She pursed her lips, brow raised. "In all my seven years of contracting, this is a first."

His brow crinkled, skeptical. "You never been stole from?"

"Of course I have been. But as far as I can recall, no one has ever confessed to me, and returned the object, before committing the crime." She held his gaze, with intent. "Why did you?"

"What?"

"You could have left. I gave you the opportunity. By the time I thought to call the authorities on you, you could have sold the ring several planets away." 

He grimaced at the floor. Finally, he looked up. "What you said back there, 'bout how I wasn't letting you do your job... Made me see you're just out here tryin' to make a living in this 'Verse." He bobbed his head. "I respect that."

Inara crossed her arms. "Then what, exactly, didn't you respect before?"

"I don't respect the Alliance, them what gave you your license." He chipped off the words. "Figure I don't needta tell you why. Since you're so gifted at readin' folk."

Inara stared him down, silent.

"Anyhow. Didn't feel right." He ducked his head, with a soft, helpless laugh. "My boss is gonna kill me. Then bring me back to life, so she can throw me out on my _pi gu._ Don't s'pose I'll get a glowing reference outta this, neither." He tilted his head back, and sighed out, "I am so humped."

Oddly, he exuded an ease he'd lacked before. A kind of surrender, a full-body shrug, as if to say _'This might as well happen.'_ Sympathy pinched Inara's throat. She couldn't help it. 

He seemed to come back to himself, and shot her a look. "How come you ain't thrown me out, yet?"

Inara narrowed her eyes. After a beat, she answered, "I don't know."

"I just admitted to engagin' your services under false pretenses. I'm a liar, and a thief."

"Not a very good one." She turned away, to set the ring on a nearby shelf. It sat heavy, like a symbol. Of what, she had no idea. She tilted a look over her shoulder, gave his question back to him. "Why haven't you left?"

He held his eyes in hers, and held still. "I don't know," he said, quiet. 

"Well, then." Inara smiled. "How about a drink?"

He laughed. It faded, as he realized she wasn't joking. His mouth twitched, into a sly, slightly circumspect smile. "Sure. 'Long as it's not tea."

"No, indeed." Inara was still reeling from the fact that she'd lost her temper with a client, never mind that he'd turned out to be a thief. "I'd say the most disastrous session of my career calls for something stronger."

"Is it really?" His smile grew. "I'll wear the badge with pride."

*

Of all the ways Mal expected the job to go, this had never been one of them.

The storm cloud of impending doom that was his near-future unemployment loomed on the horizon, but it wasn't upon him yet. Mal figured he might as well enjoy himself while he still could. And the Companion had invited him to stay for a drink. It would be rude not to accept.

After all, she still might decide to call the authorities on him. Which would make the storm cloud a whole helluva lot worse.

She retrieved a small, dark bottle from the shelf draped in fabric, the one she had shooed him away from before, along with two glasses. Mal sat down on the front edge of the seat cushion, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. 

"Feel free to take off your jacket, and make yourself comfortable." 

After a moment's hesitation, he shrugged off the suit jacket, and laid it next to him on the lounge. He watched her, wary, as she handed him a glass half-full of dark amber liquid. 

"Thank you." 

She took a seat, not too close to him, but not far away, either. "Is there a reason you're looking at me like I might burst into flames?" she asked, in mild amusement.

"Guess I'm still waitin' for you to get mad, for what I did," Mal admitted, and took a sip of his drink.

 _"Almost_ did."

"Okay, but. This is-" He cut short, and looked down at his glass, making an appreciative sound. "This is very good." His brow furrowed. "That's just it. You shouldn't be graciously treatin' me to your finest liquor. You should be- I dunno. Yellin' at me."

Inara considered, swirling her glass. "I suppose you're right. But honestly? I'm less angry than I am relieved. It explains why you were acting so strangely. And besides, I sense that you've already punished yourself plenty without any help from me." She smirked, lifting an eyebrow. "Unless you like that sort of thing..."

Mal almost choked on his drink. He swallowed, and firmed his mouth into a line. 

"Ain't no need to keep up the act," he said gruffly. "Not now I've come clean."

Inara bit her lip. "Sorry." She looked chastened. "It's hard to turn it off. Especially since-" She stopped.

Mal raised both eyebrows, waiting.

"Well." Inara hesitated. "I so rarely have visitors in my shuttle for any other reason."

The admittance fell heavy between them. Mal looked at her, with a softness, a silent understanding. He said nothing. 

He took another swallow, and set his glass on the table. "Look, I don't got nothin' against what you do. Must be a harder job than most. But for me, personally... I mean, when I'm with somebody-" He ducked his eyes, and finished hoarsely, "They gotta want it, for themselves, as much as I do."

He was hesitant to look back up, but he did. She met his eyes with an openness he hadn't seen on her before. She looked away, and gulped half her drink.

"You know..." She swallowed, and looked down into her glass. "You're not the type of person I usually take as a client."

His brow crinkled. "And what type am I, exactly?"

"A _wenshen."_ Inara struggled not to smile. "A troublemaker. Unpredictable. Little regard for social convention. Obviously struggling with repressed emotions-"

He jerked upright at this. "Hey..."

She went on, undeterred, "I've gotten very good at sensing whether or not someone will give me any difficulty during a session. I'm not fond of complications."

 _Huh._ Another thing they had in common, then. "So why'd you accept?" he dared to ask.

Inara sighed. "I don't know." She set aside her glass. Like before, her every movement was a brush stroke, pure elegance, but Mal caught a tension just underneath. She wouldn't quite look him in the eyes. 

"Perhaps... I didn't pick you as a Companion picking a client." Her voice went light. "There was very little logic involved. And even less foresight."

"I'm tryin' not to take offense," he said mildly. His heart began to pound. Like the hooves of a hundred wild horses against his ribs. 

"What I mean to say is, I accepted you because..." Inara paused, as her tongue darted out, to wet her lips. 

It took Mal a second to realize she hadn't finished her sentence. "Because?" he prompted. 

She laughed, more breath than sound. "Um." She gave a little shake of her head. "Forgot where I was going with that." 

At some point, Mal couldn't say exactly when, they had turned all the way toward each other on the couch. The space between them had shrunk to hardly nothing at all. A sort of deja vu crept over him, looking down into her face, glowing like she held a light under her bronze skin. Her lips parted, to let an uneven breath fall through. 

"Well," Mal said brightly, and clapped his thighs. He got to his feet. "Reckon I should be on my way, then."

"Oh, don't you dare-" She sprang up after him, nearly knocking over the tea table in her haste, and caught him by the wrist. Mal turned to her. 

He should have known. They had passed the point of no return some time ago, he realized, as she tilted her face upward, in such raw and pretty want, and his mouth collided with hers.

It was not a nice kiss. Not like the first. It was desperate, impatient. It tore Mal open from the inside out, set him on fire. 

Their mouths opened almost as soon as they met, as if to take in as much as they could, to breathe from each other's lungs. They matched and balanced their momentum, until Inara outpaced him, forcing Mal to stagger backward a step. His hands landed on her waist without thinking, to steady himself.

Her response was instant and wholehearted, pressing herself flush against him, hands splayed on his chest. Mal made a low sound in his throat. He tightened his grip, to keep her there. 

Something had shifted in him, and again, he couldn't say exactly when, nor how. But it had. This time, he couldn't keep from touching her, running his hands up the back of her dress, feeling her warmth through the fabric, and wishing very much it were absent. 

Inara was the one to break them apart, gasping for air. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Oh, no," she murmured. "This... is a very bad idea."

"My favorite kind." Mal smirked. He fell serious. "But if you wanna stop-"

"No," she said quickly, forcefully. "I don't think I can articulate just how much I don't want to stop. It's- well, I suppose you're still my client on paper and on the clock, but beyond that..." She faltered, looking a little lost. "We're in a grey area, rules-wise."

Mal chuckled. He cupped her face in his hand, rubbed his thumb across her cheek, to the corner of her wine-red lips. 

"That's where I live, darlin'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _Nandao wo fung luh ma?_ \- Am I insane?  
>  _pi gu_ \- ass  
> 


	6. stick around now

Over the course of her career, Inara had been called every sweet name that existed, in virtually all languages spoken across the Universe.

But this one humble _'darlin,''_ rumbling in Mal's chest, sending tremors through Inara's hands, it was a revelation. It spread through her, thawing places she hadn't even known were iced-over.

He tilted her face upward, and kissed her. And that time, _third time's the charm,_ there was nothing but softness and sunbeams.

Inara almost melted. But she caught herself, and pulled back just slightly, varying the pressure-

Mal drew away. His jaw took on a stubborn tilt. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Inara asked, breathless.

"You're tryin' to romance me with your Companion learning. Cut it out. Just kiss me."

 _Easy for him to say._ "Mal, I don't think I-"

"Yeah, that's it." He crashed his mouth onto hers, and murmured against her lips, "Don't think."

Inara let out a laugh. "That's your guiding philosophy, is it?" Another bruising kiss, before she pulled back, with a smirk. "Explains a lot."

He frowned, but it was the kind that hid a smile. "Thinkin' and kissin' don't mix," he said, with mock seriousness. His eyes fell to her jawline, and he bent down, to brush his lips across it, planting kisses down her neck. "Matter of fact, talkin' and kissin' don't go so well, either."

"Yet that's not stopping you," Inara let out in a shaky sigh, eyelids fluttering shut.

"I'm a multi-tasker."

Inara tried to follow up with a retort, but all that came out was a soft keen, when Mal's mouth found her ear. 

"Alright, then. Prove it," she murmured. "Take off my drees. And don't stop kissing me."

It was both an order and a challenge. If the low sound in Mal's throat was any indication, he was more than up to the task. 

He dedicated his mouth to the skin just below her jaw, as his hands roamed down her back, searching for the clasp or zipper. Inara could barely contain a mischievous grin. 

"Where th'hell issit?" he mumbled into her neck, kissing his way back to her mouth. He slid his hands up her sides, along the dip of her waist, up to her breasts. He grunted, both frustrated and appreciative.

Inara giggled. Her only answer was to unknot his tie with deft hands, eyes closed. She yanked it out from under his collar, and tossed it aside. Then she started on his buttons.

"Chrissakes, woman, have mercy," he gasped.

"Hmm, no. But I will give you a hint." She brushed her lips against his ear, as she told him, "There is no zipper."

"Then how-" he broke off. "Oh." His mouth curled, eyes agleam.

He took hold of both her wrists, to halt her unbuttoning campaign halfway down his shirt. He tugged her arms to her sides. His eyes sought hers in question, to make sure the restriction was fair play. She nodded, perhaps a bit too eager.

He wet his lips, flicked his eyes to hers, before lowering them to his task. He started at her shoulder. At a languorous, torturous pace, he trailed kisses all the way down her arm, down to where his hand wrapped around her wrist. He lowered as he went, sinking to his knees. 

Inara could barely breathe. It took every ounce of her considerable self-restraint not to squirm, to try and relieve the growing heat between her thighs. She felt like an impatient teenager. The kind of teenager she'd never been, never had the chance to be.

 _Ta ma de._ What was this man doing to her?

Down on his knees, Mal coaxed her hand open, and left the last kiss on her palm. 

Except it wasn't. 

He let go of her wrists, to take the hem of her dress, and lift it upward. And as soon as his lips met the skin above her knee, Inara realized what he was doing, and cursed aloud. She'd assumed he would have raised the white flag by now. Oh, how she had underestimated him.

Inara had always prided herself on her control. But Malcolm Reynolds was giving her a run for her money.

He pulled her dress up her thighs, and not once did his dedication waver, as he greeted each fresh inch of skin with a kiss. His face was serene in focus, in his careful, thorough worship of her. The dress lifted up past her hips, exposing the scant fabric of her lingerie. Mal's tongue darted out, to swipe across her inner thigh, inches from her now-wet center. He lingered, and breathed in deep. 

He kept on, kissing over the curve of her stomach, rising slowly to his feet. 

_"Huai dan."_ Inara hurled the insult with all the force of a downy feather. She was practically trembling. 

Mal chuckled under his breath. He brushed his mouth over the crest of her breasts, above the curve of her golden lace brassiere. He broke away only when he had to, as Inara lifted her arms, and he pulled the dress over her head, at last. He threw it aside, and grinned in triumph. He pressed one final kiss to her lips, before pulling back, to take in the whole of her.

Inara was gratified to watch some of his control slip away. His shoulders dropped, in slack-jawed awe. His ocean eyes lapped over her. 

She took a deep breath, to steady herself. She found a center of gravity in his eyes. She undid the clasp of her bra, and rolled it off her shoulders. Next came the lace around her hips. She nudged it down, slow but not showy, and the sting of air against her damp heat made her suck in a breath. She stepped out of this last piece of fabric, and stood before him.

He gazed at her, silent. 

"Have I truly made you speechless?" Inara couldn't help but tease. "I didn't think such a feat was possible."

He closed his mouth, eyes darting away. "Don't reckon I can say nothin' you ain't already heard."

"You don't have to." Inara stepped closer, and pulled his eyes back into hers. "You've already spoken volumes, without any words at all."

He cleared his throat. "Well. Uh. Good."

Inara smiled. "Now, we're a bit unequal, wouldn't you say?"

He seemed to snap out of his trance, and started tugging at the buttons of his half-open shirt. Inara's hands closed over his.

"Allow me."

*

Mal didn't know what he'd done to be worthy of this.

Not just the way Inara looked, _tsao,_ she took his breath away, but the way she looked at _him._ Tender and fierce, all at once. Eyes burning in quiet determination.

She made quick work of his shirt, while Mal took care of his trousers, then his socks and shoes. He wasn't the type to sit back and let others do for him. Which maybe set him apart from the majority of Inara's clients. If Raphe Harshek was any kind of representative sample, they were the sort who'd had most everything done for them, all their lives.

Well, that wasn't Mal.

As soon as he was rid of all material constraints, he took hold of Inara's bare shoulders, smooth beneath his hands, and pulled her into another kiss. His hands trailed downward, to her waist, and he kept pulling, moving backward, tugging them over toward the bed.

Inara halted his momentum by planting her feet. She brought her hands up, to rest on either side of his neck. His pulse thudded fast against her palms. 

She broke their mouths apart, and smiled. "Don't let's rush ourselves."

Mal swallowed. He ducked his head, and nodded. "Right, yeah."

Her eyes softened. No doubt she could read it out of him. Oddly, he didn't mind. It was a damn sight easier than explaining out loud, how his most recent... _'session'_ had been back in the war. How time was in short supply on the front lines. Clothes never came all the way off. The objective was quick release, before they went back to getting shot at. 

Inara held onto him, held him still, as her eyes raked over him. Mal let her look. He sure wasn’t vain, but he was only human. It was nice to be admired. And he took care of himself. Mostly. He forgot to eat every once in a while, with no one around to remind him.

His thoughts dissolved, as her hands roamed over his body, unraveling the tension in him with that magic of hers. She rubbed his shoulder blades, down his back, over his ass. Her proximity brought the alertness of his body into sharp relief. Her neat thatch of dark curls brushed against him, and Mal sucked in a sharp breath. 

"Listen, uh..." The words were slow to come, with her soft wholeness so close, right there in front of him. He had to shut his eyes. "I... figure I ain't what you're used to-" 

"None of that," she cut him off, firm but not unkind. "I don't make comparisons, and neither should you." 

"What I mean is, I don't much care to be 'serviced.'" He forced his eyes to hers. "So you tell me what you want from me, alright? I aim to give as much as I get." 

Inara took his face in both hands, pulled his mouth to hers, with such sureness. Then she drew back, and smiled up at him.

Very well, Mr. Reynolds," she said, matter-of-fact. "I want you to take me to bed."

He grinned. He slung an arm around her waist, and another under her thighs, and scooped her up. She clutched his neck, with a half-shriek, half-laugh.

The worst thing he could do, Mal reckoned, would be to treat her as if she were made of glass. Her crystalline exterior had shattered some ways back. So he was careful, but not too careful, as he ducked past the thick velvet canopy curtains, and tossed her onto the bed.

Her eyes shone in delight, then sparked, as her lips curled into a smirk. She grabbed Mal's hand, and pulled him down. 

She rose up to meet him as he fell, and caught him by the mouth, hands braced on his shoulders. She guided him down, easing the both of them into a comfortable sitting position. Her hands shifted to his thighs. 

As much as Mal wanted her to keep going, he felt the too-smooth of her movements, the grace and hyper-awareness that filled in all the awkward little cracks of a first time. Cracks where light could shine through.

He'd have to do something about that. 

Mal's hands went to Inara's waist, and he pushed gently, giving her the cue to lie back. She obliged. He hovered over her on all fours, bent down to kiss the hollow of her throat, as she tilted her head back, arched her body upward. _Ma ya,_ but she was beautiful. 

"So, insteada you servicin' me..." He dipped his mouth to her stomach, then flicked his eyes back up to hers. "How 'bout I, uh, _'service'_ you?"

The offer was far from selfless. He'd been thinking about tasting her ever since taking off her dress, kissing up her inner thigh, breathing in that sharp, heady musk. 

Her lips twitched in amusement. "What did you have in mind?" She spoke in shades of twilight, all dusk and purple.

Mal wished he had some pretty name for it, something that suited how pretty it was in his head. "Well, uh. Y'know..." He gave a tilt of his head, to gesture downward. "With my mouth," he finished, lamely.

She bit her lip, looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "Yes, please," she breathed. 

Mal tried resolutely not to think about how long it had been since he'd done this. Hell, not since before the war. Inside him, part of that lost youth stirred awake, remembering what it was to be enraptured by the mysteries of a body so unlike his own. The need to see, touch, taste. Find out how it worked.

Inara made her readiness known, knees bent, legs spread, inviting him. She gave him an adorably impatient look. "Well?" 

Mal chuckled, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. "Don't let's rush ourselves," he quipped, before ducking his head toward her center. 

*

Inara didn't make comparisons. Well, she tried not to.

But she did lose count. And she couldn't recall the last time that happened. 

He was nothing if not thorough, and thoroughly bent on making her forget about the rules, or any of her routine. Inara was shuddery and breathless and barely thinking at all, by the time Mal slid upwards, lips wet and eyes glinting with a cat-that-got-the-cream sort of look. Inara reached for the protective skin on the table beside the bed. Under normal circumstances she would have put it on herself, made a show of it, but Mal took it from her hand, with his gentle efficiency, and Inara let herself flop back onto the pillows, still gasping for air, dizzy and flushed. 

He sought her eyes, before sinking himself into her, oh-so-slow. Inara ached to be filled, but held herself back from pushing down around him. She let him take his time. 

And oh, did he take his time. He savored every new inch of her buttery-smooth heat, and only once he had filled her completely, did he begin to move. 

It was not the most flattering position. On her back with her knees bent and splayed out in the air. But Mal watched her open-mouthed as he sped up, and in the sweet blue glow of his eyes, Inara was the prettiest she's ever been. 

She was used to being noisy, to stroke the ego of her clients, but Mal was quiet and intense and Inara found she liked this better. She simply lost herself in feeling him. The sounds rose up on their own, as sensation flooded her, and smothered her thoughts with a buzzing pitch, a white-hot fog. 

She was already over-sensitive, from before, and yet it caught her by surprise when she spun out again, breath catching her throat with a soft keen, the bright heat chasing itself in waves through her body. Mal jerked and moaned, finishing right after.

Inara lay dazed, strung out on endorphins. She didn’t register Mal was pulling away until suddenly his warmth no longer filled her. With a mindless little whine, she reached up to tug on Mal’s shoulders, pulling him down, longing to feel his weight. He gave in, and half-collapsed onto her, with a chuckle.

It probably would have been alright. If she had stopped there.

Inara would have come out of this intact, if she hadn’t brushed her mouth against his ear- something like a kiss- and murmured, “Thank you.”

Another low, rumbly chuckle. “Ain’t that my line?”

Inara couldn’t explain, so she didn’t try. Mal let out a heavy breath, and kissed her shoulder. He understood. 

“Will you stay awhile?” Inara asked, quiet. Tried not to sound like she needed it.

“I shouldn’t.” He smiled. “But reckon I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _Ta ma de_ \- Shit  
>  _Huai dan_ \- Scoundrel  
>  _Ma ya_ \- Damn (mild exclamation)
> 
> I feel like this is teetering on the edge of Explicit... if you think I should up the rating, let me know.


End file.
